


The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known

by for_autumn_i_am



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boot Worship, But it's all very Victorian, Commander James Fitzjames in a Corset as God Intended it to Be, Established Relationship, Everybody Lives, Fix-It, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hand Touch, If You Squint - Freeform, In more ways than one, Intercrural Sex, Lingerie, M/M, Manhandling, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 06:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20903195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am
Summary: James could never get warm. He wore as many layers as the fashion of the season allotted; he would make his first acquaintance with the fireplace on every social visit; he would ring for tea while others were toasting with rum and gin, and have furs thrown over the feather duvet when he went to bed.In bed, Francis said, holding his shivering body, “I believe it’s time we visited Portugal.”





	The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known

James couldn’t get used to walking on ground again. He had spent over a year ashore, away from the Arctic, but there were still days when he expected the pavement to slip away. He’d shuffle carefully, as if he was making his way through ice, or walk like a sailor, steps too broad. On the worst days, he’d lean forward and ground his feet, dragging an invisible weight. 

The other thing: he could never get warm. He wore as many layers as the fashion of the season allotted; he would make his first acquaintance with the fireplace on every social visit; he would ring for tea while others were toasting with rum and gin, and have furs thrown over the feather duvet when he went to bed. 

In bed, Francis said, holding his shivering body, “I believe it’s time we visited Portugal.” 

* 

Lisbon was not quite the backwater slum he remembered from his youth. At fifteen, on his brief shore leave, he’d compared Lisbon to Watford and London and found it wanting with a native English pride and disdain. Lisbon had seemed like an evil stepmother luring him away from the tea rooms and libraries of his aunt and uncle, offering its dazzling sights like a rotting apple. 

He’d come to the realisation that there were no truly savage places, not anywhere. People always strove to make something beautiful, whether of carved bones or marble and gold. The Santa Maria Maior de Lisboa was no St Paul’s Cathedral, for sure, but it was a place of grace and worship. There was something quite comforting in the proud twin towers, the clerestory windows arching high. Francis and him didn’t go inside. Setting foot into a papist church would’ve been too much even for renegades. 

They did visit the narrow, fetid streets of the red light district. That seemed less of a travesty. They went during the day, when it was safe. The sun was shining on the filth just the same as it did on the refined gardens of Passeio Público. It didn’t differentiate. Nor should he. 

James was losing his shame. 

It was something that should’ve terrified him, he was aware. Long ago, it would have. Avoiding disgrace set the route for his life; his true North was the promise of a good reputation. 

Not anymore. 

* 

They shared fashionable rooms on Rua do Vale. Separate bedrooms, of course, a spacious parlour and a drawing room, the curtains swaying in the balmy breeze. Enough space to entertain, but they had no real friend or foe here. That was the point of the journey. 

They drew in the curtains and lit the candles. Their valets had been dismissed for the evening. It was just the two of them, and music from the streets, slow, sweet and strange. 

Just to be unbothered, at ease—what a luxury. Unattainable a year ago, and even now, the two of them always in society’s watchful eyes. He relished seeing Francis in his shirtsleeves, a sight reserved only for himself and Jopson, who dressed Francis. It was intimate; erotic, even. James’ want was often overshadowed with worry. Francis looked too thin without his bulk of arctic clothing. Wasting away. Getting dimmer and dimmer every minute. Times like this, James had to hold him. Keep near. 

They curled up on a gilded sofa that wasn’t made for comfortable sitting. Francis kept his back straight. Rigid. But James’ head rested in his lap, and he idly played with James’ hair as he read the papers. James enjoyed the caresses like a tomcat, well-loved and well-fed. The music from the streets got louder, and the flames of the candles flickered. He shivered, but it was a pleasant chill. A warm breeze from the Mediterranean seas. He could smell the salt on it, the seaweed, the fish. There was life in those waters. The ship would rock on it like a cradle. 

He reached for the front of his white waistcoat, tapping on the gold buttons before undoing them with searching fingers. He didn’t look at what his hands were doing: he kept watching Francis, seemingly lost in reading the news. The papers were old. Dating from their expedition.

“Are you _ implying _something, James?” Francis said conversationally. His fingers tightened in his hair, the tips tracing the shell of his ear. 

James tilted his head for a better look, but he was still slightly cross-eyed, his throat tight as he said, “I’m hot.” 

“Oh, you’re _ hot_.” Francis folded the paper with a vehement shake and peered at him approvingly. He had a way of being sly with his esteem. Despite his best efforts, the warmth in his eyes was obvious. “What shall be done about that?” he teased. 

James arched his chest. Oh, he was easy, easy—so coy and eager these days; but who was there to tell him to govern himself? Who was there to deny him Francis’ touch, travelling down the side of his neck? He tugged at James’ cravat, and James was all too glad to untie it for him, let the delicate silk slither to the gleaming ground with a whisper that echoed through his consciousness. 

The music on the streets has reached a crescendo, but the melody of their affair was louder, deafening. The withheld breaths, the waistcoat sliding down James’ shoulder. Francis’ sharp inhale. 

“A corset?” he asked, touching the boning. 

“Posture stays,” James corrected, with an entirely too pleased smile on his lips. He stretched out in Francis’ lap, the slide of his shirt over Francis’ coarse trousers far too loud. “I find they accentuate the waistline rather fetchingly, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Francis muttered something rather vulgar and grabbed at him, pulled him up for a kiss. It tasted like summer wine. It was the only way Francis would get drunk now. He insisted James didn’t give up drinking just for his sake. Enjoyed seeing him with a glass over the dinner table, he said. They’d had oysters and shrimp today, clams and _percebes_; the tender flesh both of them had portioned, instinctively; delicate bites, careful chewing and offering the best bits. 

Their kiss was hungry and honeyed. Francis reached for James’ fly. He was nothing if not straightforward. 

James slipped free from Francis’ lap and got to his feet. He wanted them to enjoy this rare moment of complete privacy to the fullest. He had made meticulous preparations, in fact. 

The abandoned look on Francis’ face made his heart thud in sympathy: he looked like he had been refused, and immediately accepted it, with only a touch of proud brooding. 

“None of that, please,” James told him, as Francis no doubt kept wondering if he’d been too direct, his attention unwanted. “Help me out of these.” He stepped up to the sofa between Francis’ spread legs. His boots were well-polished and thoroughly cleaned. He’d made sure of that. 

Francis touched the gold initials etched on the side and looked up at him, his gaze dragging slowly. He was getting the hang of it. “Is this how it’s going to be?” 

James moved his toes impatiently. He still had most of them. “Unless you have any objections, of course.” 

Francis arched an eyebrow and reached for the offered boot. James put his hands over his cinched waist as he watched Francis ease them off his foot, holding his chin up so his hair would cascade down just so: a perfect picture for Francis to behold. 

Vanity was a vice, he’d been told countless times. What did it matter, when Francis had come to find it endearing? They’d shared James’ body: both found pleasure in the fading beauty of it. For a long while, James felt his looks were his sole advantage. It was a kind of art, knowing what pose to assume, what face to make, how to convince his superiors that his neat appearance reflected the stature of his innermost self. He’d reasoned that if he looked the part of a proper gentleman, he might be treated as one.

No compliment, promotion or scented love-letter compared to the way Francis regarded him. He caressed his ankle with admiration, traced the line of his stockings up to his calves. James used to have shapely legs—one of his best features—but neither fat nor muscle had returned to them. Francis pressed his lips to a skinny knee and whispered, “I shall buy you silk stockings. Dress you in the finest Parisian mode.” 

“I was rather hoping you’d keep undressing me,” James said, cheeks quite heated by Francis’ frankness. No lover had made him flush in a long while, but Francis’ candor was irresistible. He was maddeningly pragmatic about flirtation: he rubbed his crotch over James’ toes as if such an act couldn’t be seen as depraved by anyone. 

Holding his breath, James changed legs, gently pressing down on Francis’ cock with a booted foot. Francis welcomed the sensation, hips bucking, but somehow the way he touched the boot’s pull strap felt even more intimate. There was a piece missing there, a piece James was forced to chew away until rescue came. They could’ve been forced to eat worse. He kept the boots as a reminder of good fortune. 

His feet freed, he danced away, unbuttoning his trousers just out of Francis’ reach. He loved a chase, loved how it infallibly undid Francis, restless in his seat but not getting up yet, as if he was waiting for permission. James fought to break his resolve. Walked backwards to the master bedroom, steps light now, until his trousers pooled to the floor and he was left in his tight drawers, the posture stays, the crisp white shirt, ready to be thoroughly claimed. He held out his arms once he reached the threshold, beckoning for an embrace, but also giving this as an offering: _ this is me; all of me, I’m afraid; will you have me, still? _

Francis was on his feet within a blink, racing for him. James was hauled up. He barked a laugh, clinging on desperately. Francis was somewhat shorter than him, but much stronger, his steady hands grasping James’ thighs as they dived into bed, falling into a graceless heap of stilted snickers and grins. 

Francis must have surprised himself with his boldness: he looked down at James, searching his gaze for ridicule, offense, puzzlement. Too bad; he’d only find the warmest affection there. James was gasping for air after that fit of laughter, hands thrown over his head and chest heaving, utterly at Francis’ mercy, utterly at ease. The posture stays were deliciously restraining, making him want to do everything leisurely, his smile drawn out, his blink slowed. 

Francis cupped his face gingerly. “All right?” 

“Taken harder falls.” He closed his eyes, luxuriating in Francis’ touch. His hands travelled to James’ torso, locating that old wound that nearly killed him, if it wasn’t for Doctor Goodsir and a minor medical miracle. James was all too aware that his life was a rare, precious boon: a fire stolen by Prometheus, the flames of which the gods were determined to snuff out. Francis traced bruises that had completely faded but were still felt. James had lost two teeth in the back row, handfuls of hair coming away from the comb. They’d lost more than that, anyhow. 

The linens smelt like they were dried in the sun, but the scent of snow and blood was never quite gone. He guided Francis closer, a hand splayed over his nape, and breathed him in. Lavender soap and warm skin, but there: the faint hint of sweat he so liked, just under the stiff collar, something that smelt like Francis, smelt like their first night. James moaned, pleased, pressed his lips there, lapping up the scent as he undid Francis’ cravat. He stopped once it was balled up in his fist, tilted his head inquisitively. 

“Will you give me a show, old boy?” 

Francis snorted at that, sat back on his heels. Looked James over, laid out like a frivolous muse in a painter’s vulgar studio. “Not much to show,” he said. Adjusted his collar. 

“Oh,” James said, watching his fretting hand, “you know I like to see. Sturdy men like you, tough, capable.”

Francis scoffed, genuinely amused, and got down to his elbows—lying over James, so they were face-to-face. “You make me sound like Heracles,” he said, and gave him a peck on the lips, good-humoured, forgiving. 

“I see you like him,” James said seriously. Rolled his hips, making Francis hiss. He was hard for him, achingly so. “It’s not just sentiment, my friend. I do yearn for you. Please tell me you know that.” 

“When a man puts on a corset for you, lets you into his bed, indulges you in all of your fantasies—you make certain assumptions, yes.” Francis squinted at him, even as he bore down, letting their erections slide together. “I understand you have irredeemably bad taste,” he added impishly. 

James canted his hips. “You villain! Can you in clear conscience fault me for enjoying this—your cock, so hard for me; the weight of you; the heat?” 

Francis made a face. “I suppose those are evident things to like about a man, if you’re inclined to prefer that sex.”

“Your shoulders have freckles in the summer,” James shot back, feeling triumphant when it gave Francis pause. “Have you noticed that? The fairness of your hair—I can tell it used to be red. Your eyes, though, they puzzle me: their blue keeps shifting. Oh, and I believe you have a mole just here.” He touched a point hidden by Francis’ shirt and waistcoat, where a floral pattern bloomed just over it. 

Francis cleared his throat. “You’re observant,” he said. “I never denied that.” 

“I see you,” James said, grabbing his slumping shoulders. “I see you, you handsome devil, and I want you completely.” 

Their lips clashed in a claiming kiss, hips resuming their lewd rhythm. James felt the brush of Francis’ knuckles as the man unbuttoned his trousers, and heartily joined him to be unburdened by drawers. 

The touch of skin on skin was exquisite; joining fingers as they took their cocks in hand, moving together in this familiar way, but this time unhurried, unafraid. It should have been enough; it always felt like there was more they could possibly get to share, to keep, the mutual surrender of the act overwhelming—but they were in the discovery business; success only meant that a new goal had to be set. 

James ducked his head and nosed at Francis’ collar. “May I see?” he whispered. 

He’d seen him bathe, have his wounds dressed, change clothing, but Francis had never been without at least a nightshirt when they were in bed together.

“I’m not opposed to it in principle,” Francis said. “It’s just, well, undignified.”

“Be undignified with me,” James beseeched, emotion bleeding into his voice. To share the humiliation of vulnerability—what could’ve been more liberating? 

There was a beat. 

“If it makes you happy,” Francis allowed. James didn’t hesitate to pop a button free, but continued to observe Francis’ face. He stopped when he noticed a flinch. 

“What is it?” he asked. Francis never halted: kept bearing down on him ferociously, his passion unrelenting, but that part was easy—shoving down your trousers, humping a willing fellow. 

“I’m not that apt at seduction,” Francis admitted with a fleeting little smile, looking away from James’ face. James rolled his hips, the friction of their cocks maddening. 

“How do you explain this, then?” James said. “What I’m doing, what I’m wearing—damn it, Francis, I’m seducing you _ back_.” 

Francis frowned at him, lips thinning. James slid his free hand into the opening of his shirt, caressed his warm chest. Wanted to touch him in a thousand unnecessary, silly places. Cock, arse, nipples: those were too obvious—Francis was right about that. He searched for his collarbones, followed their shadows. 

“What about later?” Francis blurted. 

James groaned and dropped the hand working in their laps, pulled back to sit up straight. He was wearing delicate posture stays, his wet cock straining for touch, eyes burning, hair wild: it wasn’t enough. 

“What about later?” he returned, even his voice rough. 

“We’ve never discussed,” Francis said defensively, sitting back once again. His untucked shirt covered his dignity. Of course it did. He ran his fingers through his fine hair, a self-conscious gesture that softened James’ umbrage. “It makes me feel as if indulging you completely would be amiss,” Francis added. “As if with each threshold we cross, I’m making a promise I have no hope of keeping.” 

James bit back his immediate response: a reminder of all the _ thresholds _crossed so far. Their first kiss, and a hundred firsts, living together, this sojourn, this very night: how all this time, Francis was still holding back. James knew that. He was trying to find a way around it, coax Francis back into the comfort and warmth of a ragged tent abandoned somewhere on King William Land. Perhaps being miserable and putting on costumes wasn’t the way to do it. 

“What promise?” he asked, reaching for Francis’ hand.

He let James tug at his sleeve, with a grievous expression on his face. “I’ll leave,” he said wretchedly. 

“Yes?” 

“I’ll—” Francis made a vague gesture. James somehow recognised the fluidity of it: like beckoning waves far away. 

“I know you’ll go back to the sea,” James said, brows furrowed. He reached for the duvet blindly and covered his lap. Francis watched him do it desolately. 

“I didn’t mean to ruin the moment,” he said. “I was rather enjoying your seduction. Our mutual—”

James interrupted him. “You said you’d leave. Have you heard word, perhaps?”

“Only whispers,” Francis said, still looking at the duvet between James’ legs. “Mentions of expeditions. Within earshot—never to my face. I’ve told you about them. Grumbling up a storm, if you recall.”

“What haven’t you told me, then?” 

“I was meant to retire, you know. One can’t retire with a failed expedition. The public’s sympathy won’t last. I’ll be gone.” 

James still waited for the other shoe to drop, to hit him square in the head. Something painful, something terrible to be revealed, but Francis just sat there wrapped in heavy guilt. 

James remembered another confession Francis had made. The first one he’d ever made, maybe. His reason of serving on the _Terror._ “Christ,” he said. Licked his lips and tugged at Francis’ sleeves again. This time, he took Francis’ hand. He squeezed it and looked at Francis quite seriously. “What’s on my bedside table?” he asked urgently. Francis’ gaze shifted away, but James leant closer to him. “Don’t look. You can tell me. The same items you keep within reach.” 

“Candle, match, pocketwatch,” Francis listed, a tad irate at the odd request, then paused, added with dawning realisation, “a compass.” 

“I don’t need a compass to go around Lisbon, do I?” James demanded, his grip firmer. “Why is it there, then?” 

“Habit,” Francis said quietly. He squeezed his eyes shut and put his forehead to James’.

“The sea is mistress to us both; Lady Adventure, too,” James said, lips brushing over Francis’. “You’ll be gone and I’ll be—somewhere in China, possibly, and they _ might _ just send us back to Antarctica, on separate ships, on separate dates. But I shall have that compass to find my way back to you. My harbour. You’re my _ home _, Francis. We will keep leaving. But what does it matter, as long as we come back to each other?”

Francis nodded, at a loss for words. His face was a blur this close, but his scent was a reassurance, the breath they shared, his anchoring touch. James pressed a kiss to his lips, then his chin, his neck. His journey continued: Francis bared his chest, with trembling hands, the undone buttons stretching the linen. He yanked at them, and James rushed to help ease their strain, unfastening them in a dazzled hurry. 

Francis let him take off his waistcoat, reveal his naked chest. He was stoic like a statue—not David, but Pygmalion’s masterpiece, the marble turned to flesh, warming up to a lover’s touch. James could feel the rapid beat of his heart and traced its place through the ribcage, the bones far more prominent under his fingers than they ought to be. Hidden under tough muscle and soft fat, these bones, this heart spoke of Francis’ sacrifice, his hunger and turmoil. He had never looked like he felt the strain of their journey: with hollow eyes and cracked lips, he had kept on smiling, his ashen face glowing with much-needed reassurance. 

How James had loved him, beyond vanity; how he loved him now, back in society, both of them like automatons going through the motions of civilisation, their truest souls exposed only for each other. 

James dipped his head, bowing before his captain—bowing to his lap. He took him into his mouth like he would take the eucharist and tasted something divine. Francis groaned: a benediction, James’ offering accepted. He felt cleansed, with salt on his tongue, lapping it up. Touched himself: let Francis see how ravished he was, sharing these sacred pleasures. 

His hair fell over Francis’ thighs, hiding what he was doing from the eyes of infidels. He loved being on his knees for him—there was precious rare occasion for it. The posture stays restricted his faltering breath, each inhale through his nose making him only dizzier. He moved his whole body, back bent, rear on display, his fingers caressing Francis’ wet length. It was a secret dance for him, for James’ admiration couldn’t be expressed in language.

Francis understood him. He let him take it, whispering stunned words of encouragement, plain but doubly honest in their lack of adornment. “You’re so good to me,” Francis told him earnestly, voice breaking, “So good, James. Look at you—that’s it, beautiful.” 

James felt it: felt good, beautiful, and seen, as if Francis’ words could reveal these hidden qualities which he was hopeless to discover alone, too lost in the ugly maze of memory. The bliss washing over his body felt weaker than the tide of joy in his soul, delight and mirth bubbling up like spring water. Euphoria was more commonly associated with sex: but no ecstasy compared to the sheer contentment he felt, completely at ease as he pleasured Francis, swallowed his release. 

He was pushed onto his back; Francis took his rightful place between his legs and stroked him to a climax, keen and intent, enthralling with his tousled hair, his shirt hanging open. It was the sparkle in his eyes that pushed James over the edge, their glint speaking of the pleasure and solace shared: _ you feel it, too: we both feel it, me and you_. 

“You pretty thing,” Francis said in a tone that suggested he was chiding him, even as he lay down and let James rest his head on his chest. James was giddy from the off-handed praise, feeling restored in the glow of his orgasm, the tight embrace of the posture stays, his hair as wild as Francis liked it best. He let Francis ruffle it up further, the gesture quite rough, as if they were just jesting mates. James grinned at him, enjoying the reminder that while he might have gained a lover, he still had a friend in Francis. 

Francis, who was watching him thoughtfully, as if contemplating what to do with him. James tried to compose himself—for what, he didn’t know—control his features, restrict the deluge of emotion, should it prove to be overwhelming. He was all too aware that he was _ behaving _, and Francis would see right through him. 

He still put on a neutral expression as Francis reached for his own bedside table. He only narrowly escaped the temptation to nuzzle Francis’ sideburn: his profile was far too enticing a sight. James curled his fingers over Francis’ rising chest, wondering, vaguely, what was to come next. How should one descend from such heights reached? Was there a way back, and where did it lead? Perhaps they were doomed to go in opposite directions, their union much too powerful to indefinitely continue. Maybe they were supposed to meet like tornado and snow, a rare dance of the elements, allied for a singular event, then never seen together again.

James wasn’t going to accept that.

“When you’re gone,” he threatened, “I will write you the most outrageous letters.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Poetry will be included.” 

Francis gave him a cross yet amused look, and pressed an object into his hand. “Penny for your thoughts,” he said lightly.

James peered at the cold weight in his palm: Francis’ compass. It was fashioned like a pocket watch, made of brass, with an unadorned face. He turned it to look at the engraving, a simple monogram: F. C. It seemed far more precious than his own, nestled in an expensive rosewood case, for it belonged to Francis. He closed his fingers around it reverently and gave Francis a quizzical look. 

“I would like you to have it,” Francis explained, turning away. He started playing with the tassels of the canopy and added, “So you’ll always find your way back to me.” 

James watched the golden fringe sliding through Francis’ nervous fingers. “I can’t risk you losing your direction; how will you return to me?” 

Francis pursed his lips and gave a final tug to the tassel. He gazed at James, decidedly casual, and noted, “If I can have your compass in exchange for mine, we will be just fine, I should think.” 

James frowned at him, then a slow smile tugged at his lips. He pressed closer, covering Francis with the entirety of his pliant body, leaning so near they were cheek to cheek as he whispered into his reddening ear, “Is this an engagement, Francis?” 

He heard Francis sigh. “Only if you say yes,” he grumbled. “Otherwise, you’d only be refusing a gift from a dear friend.” 

James nipped at the lobe of his ear, then kissed his brow. “_Mais um motivo para dizer sim_,” he said, the words rolling off his tongue so easily: a half-remembered mother tongue, but it seemed only fitting to reply thus. There was nothing learned about this, nothing forced. 

Francis wiggled, and asked with barely concealed anxiety, “Splendid, what does that mean?”

“Take a guess, Captain.” James gave him an impish grin, then kissed him. 

**Author's Note:**

> My warmest regards to [@icicaille](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille) for betaing (and dragging me into the fandom in the first place. Like, two weeks ago. I haven't known peace since then.)
> 
> The title is from Tim Kreider's much meme'd New York Time essay. 
> 
> _Mais um motivo para dizer sim_ is "all the more reason to say yes" in Portuguese. (Oh, Commander James.)
> 
> Find me on tumblr sobbing over the cold boys [@longstoryshortikilledhim](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com) | You can [reblog](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/188149656381/the-mortifying-ordeal-of-being-known-james-could%22) or [retweet](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1180510007667908608) the fic 💗


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